


They Give You Fever

by Thefractured



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Alchemy, Drug Use, Families of Choice, Father-Daughter Relationship, Fluff and Humor, Hunters & Hunting, Implied/Referenced Incest, Monsters, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Multi, Politics, Potions, Spoilers, sort of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-22
Updated: 2016-09-16
Packaged: 2018-08-10 08:29:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7837666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thefractured/pseuds/Thefractured
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>“No.” Geralt shook his head, voice flat and certain. “This isn’t a contract. And you’re no monster.”</p><p>“Aren’t I?” Ciri looked at him.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“I said no,” Geralt stalked down off the raised road. Roach wickered quietly behind him, bending her neck to whuff at the dusty track. The big black stallion beside her stood almost unnaturally still, his mane and tail crimped into waves and so glossy they shone despite the overcast weather.

“And I say you will.” Yennefer’s hem dragged through the tall grass and herbage as she followed him doggedly.

“Out of the question.” Geralt pushed past the low beech branches swordfirst, not bothering to hold them, so that they sprang back with a thwack.

The springy limbs vaporised before they could catch Yennefer in the stomach. “You’re being childish.”

 _Am not._ Geralt snorted hard, clearing his airways to better pick up the faint tang of visceral rot -- like shit and grapes. “And you’re being -- being perverted.”

“Oh I am, really? Let's unpack that,” Yennefer snarled, and Geralt winced. It felt like that split second of impending doom right before a diving forktail fell upon him. “You think it's perverted to help a young woman accomplish her goals. You don't care how difficult this situation is for her, or the sacrifices she’s already made, or the consequences if she can’t do this one cursed thing.”

“Yen-”

“Oh don't you Yen me. You realize, Geralt, she knew you’d refuse. That's why she didn't bloody well ask you for help. She asked the sorceresses instead.”

Geralt snorted, going back to the trail of smeared blood. “Oh really? How’s that supposed to work? Everyone flips through their individual catalogues of disposable, well-leashed playthings and--”

“Shut up.” Yennefer’s expression twisted in distaste as she followed him over bloody soil and bits of flesh. “Just shut up right now. You don’t understand anything. Phillipa offered to help.”

Geralt frowned, pinpointing the faint sound of fleshy shambling amidst the surrounding vegetation. “So? She can sleep her way through the entire lodge if she likes.” Geralt had, more or less. Might not be a bad idea, actually -- no risk of disease or pregnancy, and while he didn’t trust any of them or even like most of them, he was at least fairly certain none of them would murder her in her sleep. Which was more than he could say for most of her suitors.

“You -- you blind fool.” Yennefer’s knuckles were fisted white as she stalked after him. “Phillipa can polymorph.”

Geralt paused to examine a badly-scraped tree trunk. “Well, unless Phillipa can polymorph herself a cock and balls, I don’t...” he started, glancing sidelong at Yennefer. She fixed him with a level stare, and Geralt suddenly found that he’d forgotten what he meant to say.

Yennefer folded her arms and studied him. “Think about it, Geralt. But don’t think too long. She’s dead set on this course, and she’ll not be delayed for long.”

Geralt clenched his jaw. Before he could say anything in response, Yennefer had opened a portal and stalked through, without so much as a glance back. The chiming keen and heavy gust of accompanying wind, predictably, attracted attention.

Geralt heaved a growl, slicked a coat of necrophage oil down his blade, and charged.

****

“Nay boy, you see alla them extra swords on ‘er back? That be a witcher’s horse. We’ll not tamper.”

The boy kicked at the scuffed roadway. “But… but Sir, ye said yerself these woods are dangerous, and she’s out here without oats nor water nor-- Oh! Eep!” The cobbler’s apprentice started so violently, Roach looked askance at him. The horse didn’t however react to the battered witcher’s approach, the pale man hauling a bloated and pulpy trophy from the treeline. It was too common an experience for the mare.

The cobbler snatched his hat from his head. “Many pardons, Sir. The boy here, he should have been apprenticed to a farrier, loves them horses he do--”

“No offense taken.” The witcher was as pale as a corpse himself, his face twisted and horrible somehow, crossed with fearfully dark lines. Inhuman. “Tell me. Is there news from Vizima? About the Empress?”

“The, uh. What?” The cobbler squashed his hat in his hands, wrinkling it. “The -- err --”

The boy’s awe and fear only went so far towards keeping him quiet, apparently. “Cirilla the Executioner, they was calling her inna tavern after the--”

The cobbler went as pale as the witcher. “Quiet, boy! Err, never mind him, Sir.”

“After. The. What.” The witcher’s words were measured, cold. He stood too still, body poised like a serpent’s. The head impaled on the grappling hook in his gauntleted fist dripped a thick black trail of blood.

“The Prince from Kaedwen!” The cobbler yelped, his voice breaking. “There was to be a marriage, or, not a marriage but something like it, but -- but there weren’t anything left of him after the first night. Not enough to scrape together to send back.”

“Second one what ended like that!” added the boy, excitedly. “Blacksmith says it’s a curse, jist like what that strigga had in them singing stories like, ‘nd--”

“Here.”

The boy gaped at the meat hook abruptly shoved into his hand, and the thing impaled thereon. The witcher had already turned away to his horse. “Take that to the alderman of Tyffi when you pass by. Don’t let him give you less than forty crowns.” The black mare turned at a tug on her reins, then wickered quietly in greeting as the pale witcher swung himself into her ornate saddle.

The cobbler and his boy stared at the witcher, wearing identical dumbstruck expressions. “Sir-- but, master witcher, sir--”

But the white-haired witcher was digging his heels into the mare’s flanks. The horse sprang ahead, heavy muscles bunching, lunging into a flat-out gallop. “Yer goin’ the wrong way fer Tyffi!” The cobbler shouted after the witcher, but in a flash he was out of earshot, hooves flashing thunder against the packed earthen roadway.

The thick forest swallowed him, as if he’d never been there in the first place. The cobbler and his apprentice exchanged glances. “What just happened?” the boy asked.

The cobbler shook his head, having no answer for that, but unwilling to say so. “Back in the cart, boy. No, don’t drop that. Forty crowns will keep you in porriage for a year -- imagine that, trying to throw forty crowns to the side of the road. Get in the cart.”


	2. Chapter 2

 

Quick note: you can probably skip these two chapters. They were supposed to be smut, and somehow ended up as a long, self-indulgent exploration of Ciri’s talents as an empress, technological innovation, local economic conditions, politics, monster hunting techniques, agricultural inspections, and other dull tripe. Very sorry. TLDR for chapters 2 and 3: Geralt and Ciri go hunting and talk about Ciri’s unfortunate accidental flaying of her male lovers, they have a small (totally minor) miscommunication, Geralt ends up tied to the bed. As one does.

 

***

 

The palace at Vizima was an imposing structure, beneath its trappings of luxury. The high walls, kill slots, and crenelated towers all bespoke its originally-intended function: a bastion created to withstand seiges and repel armies.

It hadn’t been built, or maintained, with witchers in mind. An extensive foundry complex had grown up along a back section of the palace wall, and the eighteen-foot leap between a cooling tower and a watchman’s cornice was easy enough to navigate when the guard changed, around two in the morning. From there, it was quick work to pad across a few rooftops towards the royal quarters.

He didn’t need to go that far.

The rapid clack of training blades against a wooden target lead him towards the palace’s largest courtyard. From the sound and frequency of the blows, he thought it must be two swordsmen. But as he neared, he could pick out only one heat signature, a single fighter dressed in simple riding leathers and blouse, exerting hard enough to glow like a torch in his vision.

Geralt crouched on the slate rooftop edge, and watched.

Step, cover and close in. Weight well balanced and forward, using the heel edges of those tall riding boots to turn more tightly than almost any swordsman should expect. Momentum powered a slash: a neat, well-controlled strike that would have bypassed a parry to slit a man’s throat. If the target had been a man, rather than a wooden training dummy.

Then Ciri was spinning away again, footwork good, quick. Wood chips flew as she hammered down another series of slashes. Swift, but… angry. A pattern began to emerge -- she was pushing herself hard, probably had been for a while. There was a kind of frustrated anger in those blows, though Geralt could not tell against whom it was directed.

Ciri spun to the side, followed up with a powerful hack to the kidney level. She flung herself back, as if evading a return stroke. Then she was behind the wooden target in a flash of blue, leading with an aggressive stab to the gut level.

It left her back open, just for a moment. A good enough, or lucky enough, swordsman could take advantage of that.

Where was her sparring partner, her instructor, to watch her movements and help channel that frustration? There were plenty of spare practice blades. The closest person -- indeed, the only person -- was a halberdier guardsman, standing locked inertly at attention beside the main courtyard doors to the palace.

Geralt disliked him immediately. “If you’re going to be useless, you should sit down, take a nap,” Geralt murmured, drawing the sign midair. Then, when the guardsman had slumped quietly to sit on the stair, his helm resting against the wall, Geralt found a column thick with carving and swung himself down.

Single-minded in her efforts, Ciri never let up her assault against the wooden target. But the next time she came around, lunging through a powerful, chopping strike -- Geralt was there. The steel bar of her weighted practice blade clashed, ringing, against its mate. Geralt held the parry; his eyes gleaming gold. “Really shouldn't train alone, Empress.”

Geralt was fully prepared to counter a vast array of moves -- anger or a sharp tongue, a turn, sweeping advance, sudden kick, a magic spell, or a flurry of blows so quick a normal man couldn't even see the strikes.

A flying tackle, though? Not so much.

The resistance against the bar of steel just vanished, and somehow (he suspected teleportation) Ciri ended up in his arms, her hug wrapped so tight around him they both nearly fell. “Geralt!”

“Omph! Ciri --” he steadied them, her face pressed into his leather chestplate. He discarded the practice sword to the flagstones beside hers, in favor of returning the embrace. “You shouldn’t -- I could have been a doppler!”

“You’re not.” Ciri’s arms trembled, like she was trying to squeeze the breath out of him. “Geralt. I knew. You’re not.” She gave a choked, breathy laugh. “Besides, if you had been, I’d have stabbed you with your own dagger.”

“That’s my girl.” Geralt smiled against her hair. She smelled like soap, exertion, and traces of expensive court perfume -- but beneath that was her own scent, clean and wild. “Been a while.”

“A while!” Ciri gasped. “You haven’t been to Vizima since Emhyr died. Three _years,_ Geralt. And not a word to Yen or, or anyone. I was starting to think--”

Ah, Yennefer. “There’s so much ceremony. And Mererid always make me wear a doublet,” Geralt said uncomfortably. “I hate doublets. Feels like they must--”

“--sew jagged metal bits to the insides. I know,” Ciri said, stifling a sound against his chest. “Is that why you -- wait. Who did you Axii on your way in?”

“Just him.” Geralt jerked his chin towards the guard who might have appeared -- to someone who didn't know better -- to have fallen asleep on the stairs. He patted her back, a bit awkwardly. “Ciri, your guardsmen need to be shielded against magic. If I’d been a sorceror--”

“Then you wouldn’t have gotten past the walls without setting off the wards.” She gave him a hard squeeze. “But I promise we’ll look into it. Maybe you’d stay a while, and take a contract to do this again? Test out the defenses?”

“Wouldn’t need to be a--” he felt her flinch just faintly, and hesitated. Yennefer couldn’t object to his presence if he were here on a contract, surely. He couldn’t… actually remember what they’d quarreled about the last time, but he was certain that she still did. Three years wasn’t a very long time for a sorceress. Or for a witcher, really, but memory wasn’t his strong suit, as he’d been reminded. “Yeah,” he said gruffly. “Maybe I would. Could take a while.”

“Ok,” said Ciri, and he could hear the smile in her voice.

“Just one thing I gotta take care of first.”

Ciri surreptitiously wiped her face and looked up at him. The kohl around her eyes was smudged. “Now where have I heard that before.”

“It’s -- a contract for archespores, near Noritz.” The hamlet was perhaps two hours’ ride away.

“Archespores, so far north, in a dry area?” Ciri blinked. “That’s curious. Find anything out so far?”

“Haven’t started yet.” Geralt cleared his throat. “You know -- I expect they’d do a better job of tiring you out than your training dummy here. And archespores, well, they’re really a two-person contract.” He watched Ciri’s breath catch, her eyes widening. “You could be back before midmorning,” Geralt offered. He’d changed his mind a dozen times on the long road to Vizima, had worried the question half to death. The only conclusion he’d come to was that he was an utter fool -- and a wishful fool at that, which was probably the worst kind of all.

Turns out, he’d been wrong. “Let’s go.” The Empress of most of the known world was already grabbing a spare pair of leather gauntlets off the armor rack. She left the blunt practice blades on the floor. “Got enough golden for two? And can I borrow a silver?”

Not even Geralt”s deep control over his physiological functions could keep his heart from leaping. “Of course. To both. Anyone in the scrivener’s hall at this hour?”

“Nope,” she headed that way; he had to lope to catch up. “The window? It’s a forty foot drop. We could...”

“Got it covered.” All of these rope ladders that kept ending up in his saddlebags had to come in useful sometime, right?

Ciri’s brief, fierce grin flashed in the night. Then they had to keep quiet, the pair of them ghosting past a patrolling guard who was half-blinded by his own torch. The window was almost too narrow to squeeze through, but in a reckless fit of optimism, Geralt had worn his closest-fitting armor specifically with it in mind. A massive table nearby provided a suitable anchor point. Geralt spooled out the carefully-measured ropes with quick efficiency, unsure of how much time they’d have before an alarm was raised, and went first. The coarse hemp rope held. Once down, he steadied the ladder for Ciri.

She didn’t need the assistance, despite the heels of her riding boots. “Whew,” Ciri murmured when she was on the ground, regarding the intimidatingly long ladder. They weren’t going to be able to get it down. “Better get moving,” she said, as Geralt retrieved a bundle from the shadows and shook it out to reveal a concealing cloak. “Noritz is a ways out there. Hm, you have a werewolf decoction?”

Geralt snorted. “Not giving you mutagen decoction. Hadn’t planned on making you walk, either,” the witcher said, holding out the cape for her to don, then pursing his lips in a quiet, familiar whistle. A chuff sounded from just around the corner of the tower.

Ciri pulled the hood up over her hair, gathering the warm, but plain, wool cape around her. “Hey girl,” she murmured warmly as Roach trotted around the wall. The Nilfgaardian mare was just as Ciri remembered, her conformation still elegant and powerful, though her muzzle was graying a little. Tied to her saddle was a lead… with another saddled horse trailing behind, this one a blood bay with three black socks. “Or girls, rather. Is this Roach-in-training?”

“Mn. Still a little battle-shy. You take Roach.”

Ciri patted the black mare, hiding her smile. “But the other one is also named Roach, isn’t she?” She swung herself up, then bent to shorten the stirrups.

“Hadn't thought about it.” He loosed the lead between the saddles and mounted. "I suppose so," he said, wheeling Roach around.

“That’s not confusing at all,” Ciri replied dryly, and urged Roach to a canter, keeping to the dirtiest part of the alley, where steel-shod hooves wouldn’t ring so loud. A city the size of Vizima never truly slept, but there was no sense in attracting more attention than necessary.

“Why would it be?” said Geralt, following closely.

The capital had grown a great deal over the past few years, filled with huge new buildings in which ran machinery that made the very ground shudder, and choked with new abodes of every sort -- some as much as five levels tall. Several of the main avenues were criss crossed with wires which had strange glass-encased mage lights attached to them, casting their glow on strumpets, pickpockets, cloaked figures, and other denizens of the very early morning. It was comforting, in a way, to see that some things never changed. “The city’s doing well,” Geralt observed.

“Now that Kiera’s cured the Plague, yes.” She nudged Roach into a steady gait beside, well, Roach. Her saddle was thoroughly broken in, and magnificently crafted -- even on cobblestones, the ride was smooth. “Whole empire is doing well, to be honest. Gross domestic product has doubled.”

“What?”

“On average, the people have roughly twice as many things, and twice as much food, as they did seven years ago,” Ciri explained, peering down a shadowed side street, then spurring Roach onwards. “Mostly because of the trade expansion, partly because the wars ended. At least half the soldiers went home and started ploughing their fields. And their wives. Other half are garrisoning towns. Their families have largely moved there.”

“Peace has been good,” Geralt said. “Oh, Dandelion has a new ballad -- about Ofir joining as a vassal state, without a bolt being fired. Apparently, you arrived to the battlefield on the back of a unicorn and ordered the armies to surrender,” Geralt said. He pulled up his own hood as they neared the portage gate. A pale-haired rider could be memorable, especially at this hour.

“Is that the rumor right now? Huh. Minus the entire part about the armies, the unicorn, and my personal persuasiveness -- yes, essentially. The truth is much more boring: the spies and diplomats did their share, and we had to make certain concessions to some of the guilds. But honestly, I think the abolishment of the intra-province tariffs did most of the work.”

“So that’s why we’re seeing more imports?” Geralt asked, keeping his voice down. The sleepy guards grumbled, but waved them through without question. There was no inspection line, no bribes were demanded.

“And exports. Northern wool like this --” she fingered the edge of her cloak “--is worth a lot in Zangwebar. Really. It doesn’t heat up under intense sun, which is the main danger down there, and it’s much more resistant to sand storms than silk. If they keep sending us all their coin like they are, they’ll have no option but to join.” They’d passed through the built up portion of the outskirts now, and the road lay open before them, gilded by moonlight. Nightjars called to one another; the air smelled like the honeysuckle that climbed the hedges between fields. Ciri breathed deeply, the tension that had been lurking in the set of her shoulders at last beginning to fade.

“Ah, wait a moment.” Geralt nudged the bay to walk close alongside Ciri’s mount, then leaned down to the bedroll tied to her haunches. “You might need these along the way, if we run into trouble.”

Ciri twisted in her saddle. “Hm --?” but then she sucked in a harsh breath. Wrapped in the blanket was a baldric, the leather straps worn, the buckles still adjusted for someone of slight stature. Two blades were fastened to it, each encased in a witchers’ scabbard. The sheaths were slit on one side and fitted with a complex pattern of magnetic strips, so the swords could be worn and drawn over the shoulder, yet remain in their sheaths when their wearer jumped, rolled, or swam. She lifted the baldric reverentially from his hands. “Geralt. You kept them.” Her voice was thick. “I didn’t want… I’m so sorry I gave them back to you.”

“Not because you needed them, I hope?” He relaxed a little when she shook her head faintly. “It’s alright, Ciri. Hard to charm courtiers and forge alliances while wearing witcher’s swords. Besides... just imagine how they’d clunk against the throne every time you sat.”

Ciri sniffed, her mouth still twisted. “Or get caught in the throne’s latticework. Then I’d be stuck there, have to call a carpenter to get me out.” She edged Zireael from its sheath, just a few inches. The silver was radiant in the moonlight, runes a dancing glow, blade oiled and meticulously maintained, even after all this time. Beautiful.

Geralt’s eyes glittered as he repacked the bedroll. “Not to mention, they’d clash with every one of your ceremonial outfits. Chamberlain Mererid might faint at the sight.”

“Handmaidens too. All of them, just scattered like cordwood over the carpets. Anyone might trip.”

“Appalling. Or the hilt cap could get caught on your crown, fling it across the room.”

Ciri pressed the back of her hand to her mouth. “The carnage. The horror.” She let out a breath slowly, and slid the blade home. “Not a day went by that I didn’t think about hunting monsters with you,” she said at last, and slung the harness over her shoulder. It fit as it had, those seven long years ago. She reached back to touch the hilts, as if to make sure they were really there.

“Hn. If you’re that eager,” said Geralt, the corners of his mouth turning up, “I’ll race you to Noritz.”

“Won’t be much of a race if you can’t catch me,” replied Ciri, digging her heels into the horse’s sides. “Come on, Roach!”

 

***

 

Neither mount had the stamina to gallop the entire fifteen miles, which was perhaps just as well. Places where the track threaded through thick forest were too deeply shadowed for the horses to see clearly, and a broken leg was still a risk, despite the good condition of the road.

They slowed to a ground-eating canter soon enough, which suited Geralt fine, as it afforded both riders more opportunity to talk. Ciri had been up to many things since coming into the full power of the Nilfgaardian crown. He might not have much of a grip on most of what Ciri spoke about, but the enthusiasm that shone from her words and gestures -- that, he understood. “...But wouldn’t abolishing the chimney tax reduce imperial revenues?”

“Less than you’d think,” said Ciri, standing up in the stirrups to stretch. “Beard tax, well tax, piccage -- these small levies against the poorest peasants were always the most abused, the most tainted by corruption. Any losses were negligible, compared with the gains from breaking up feudal estates and stabilizing the currency, like I told you about.”

“Huh.” Geralt shook his head in wonder. Whoever said that love was a battlefield had evidently never experienced politics. “Well, I’m glad you know all this.”

Ciri smiled. “On a deeper level, it’s fundamentally… unfair to charge peasants for keeping themselves warm in the winter, don’t you think? So that played into the decision, as well.”

Geralt shrugged. “I suppose. Mmn, now that I think about it, I’ve only heard of one rimewraith this year. Usually see several every spring.” The spirits of those who froze to death slowly weren’t particularly dangerous, so far as wraiths went, and they tended to melt away without need for a witcher in any case. But they could claim the lives of infants or weakened children.

“Really?” Ciri brightened. “That’s the first good news I’ve heard about -- you have no idea how many advisors were telling me that ending one little tax would bring about the downfall of the imperial treasury. You still have enough work, though?”

“Plenty. Mn, helps that more people can afford a witcher, seems like.” Some of the little clusters of drowners or necrophages, which Geralt might normally have engaged simply to empty the pockets of whomever they’d killed, now had contracts on them. Only ten or twenty crowns, usually, but it was enough to keep his blades sharpened.

“Have you -- have you given any thought to what we talked about before? Forgive me, Geralt, if that was the reason you left--”

“No.” Geralt shook his head. “It wasn’t. And I have.” For all the good it had done. He clicked at Roach when it seemed she wanted to hang back to investigate a patch of ribleaf near the road. “Still don’t like the idea of subjecting boys to the trials.”

“Yen thinks she can reduce the mortality by half. Maybe more. She thinks that the grasses were never meant to be administered without a sorcerer on standby to help.”

Half was still too many. Caleb, slain in Salamandra’s assault, had been the last to be fully initiated at Kaer Morhen; there’d been eight in his age group. Three survived until the grasses. One, afterwards. Geralt shook his head. “You’ve been calling her Yen,” he said, trying to change the subject. “Not mother, anymore?”

“Now that’d be awkward at court. And--” She hesitated, glanced at him sidelong. “--elsewhere.” She cleared her throat. “Any chance you were able to get the message to Letho?”

Looked like she wasn’t to be distracted, damnation. “Not exactly. Left a letter for him at Kaer Morhen that fall. Eskel said it was gone when he visited, two winters later. If Letho has it, he’s probably thinking it over. Has good cause to be suspicious.”

Ciri sighed. “I’m not Emhyr. I won’t use him as an assassin, nor drag the idea of restarting the Viper School across his path like a baited lure. If he, or any others, want to, then the resources are ready for them.”

“I know that, but.” Geralt shrugged. “Not sure you understand what you’re getting yourself into, in any case. Why would you even want more witchers?”

“I do read the reports, Geralt. The monsters may be less numerous within the empire, but they’re as bad as they ever were on its borders -- south of Zerrikania, or east of the blue mountains. And some prophecies suggest that another conjunction could happen within my lifetime. If so, I don’t want it to take two hundred years for witchers to begin traveling in number, like it did after the last conjunction.”

Geralt rode in silence. What was there to say? What could a simple witcher know about planning for the vagrancies of destiny?

Ciri looked at him for a time, thoughtfully, drew breath as if to say more, then shook her head a little. “I’ll try not to be too insistent. Just… think about it. Maybe talk to Yen.” Geralt reluctantly nodded. Another half-mile passed under their hooves, and Ciri pointed across a field that grew thick with ripening wheat. “Speaking of getting messages to people -- see that tower, there?”

Geralt would have had to be blinder than a human to miss the gridwork shaft. Some half-finished construction by another mad sorcerer, he’d assumed, though to be honest there weren’t many of those left. “Seen some like it.”

“It’s a repeater station.” Ciri squinted a little in the moonlight. She patted Roach’s flank. “Transfers xenovox messages, without the need to go through a sorceress.”

Geralt grunted in acknowledgement. “Xenovox. Kiera gave me one of those, once. Not terribly useful.”

“Because you were out of its range, right?” Ciri looked at him. “Most of them top out at five miles -- seven, if they’re well-made and you’re not in a valley or near an energy sink. For longer distances, you need a sorceress who’ll agree to relay the signal, and getting them to work together for any length of time….” Ciri sighed, with somewhat more exasperation than fondness.

“Huh. So I could use a xenovox near that tower to send a message to anyone?”

“That’s the plan, someday.” Ciri said, biting the inside of her lip. “Right now, you’d probably just get one of the apprentices in Vizima. But we’ll have a chain of towers to Kovir next year, and branches to three other provinces soon after. Eventually, all witchers might carry a xenovox -- if someone has a contract, they just see the alderman in the village, who can send out an alert. No more checking message boards, and no more getting notice only months after a monster has moved on.” The enthusiasm was clear in her voice.

“Huh. Useful. And ambitious.” Geralt wasn't quite sure if he entirely liked the idea, but if it meant that he’d have fresher bodies and tracks to examine -- wait. “You're not just going to use this to talk to vassal states? Get reports from the spies, that kind of thing?”

“That too, of course. But I want every village to have access; maybe even every family. Farmers could check the market price of grain before driving their carts to town. Merchants, medics, and laborers could find out who needs what they’re offering. Travelers could alert garrisons to bandits the moment they’re spotted. The dryads could contact treaty enforcers if woodsmen started infringing on the forest boundaries, rather than shooting first and asking questions never. The possibilities are…. Geralt, I want there to be no such thing as a forgotten hamlet, an unheard people.”

The witcher took his time to examine those ideas. “Hn,” he said at last.

Ciri sighed. “We’ve made so much progress already. I know it sounds crazy, but--”

“No, not crazy. Radical, though. Is this… one of the things you saw, while traveling the worlds?” Ciri nodded, and he tilted his head back in thought. “Put a lot of messengers out of work.”

“Mn. And put even more xenovox technicians to work, plus people to build and maintain the towers. I need mages with basic magical competency -- a lot of them, and fast. I need even more people who can write, read, figure numbers, and assemble clockwork. That’s part of the reason for the free academies.”

“I’d heard a little about the ones in Kovir and Toussaint, anyway. Got mixed feelings about sorcerers. Imagine you do, too.” In point of fact, Geralt himself had been forced to kill a number of rather powerful mages, which were experiences he hoped never to repeat. But then, he’d loved several as well, so there was that.

“True enough, though I don’t think four or five years of training are going to result in another Vilgefortz. He was mainly self-taught, using the equipment and books he’d gleaned from the homes of wizards who’d been forced to flee persecution. He was a product of instability, war, and hatred, Geralt -- not formal training.” Radovid’s purges might have been some of the bloodiest, but they certainly hadn’t been the first. Nor even had they been the last, despite the Empire’s continuing efforts to strangle the Eternal Flame. Peace should make it harder for wild talents to grow so twisted, unnoticed by the community of other mages. But it was something to think about.

“Hn,” said Geralt.

They rode for a while. “You don't think the benefits are worth the risks?” Ciri asked.

“Didn't say that.” Geralt thought a moment. “I trust your choices, and your ability to see through the bullshit. You solve problems, make decisions, that I dont have the frame of reference to even understand. That's as true today as it was when we dropped by Vizima, eight years ago. Or when you went through that portal. So, no, I don’t know anything about this message sending... thing, or governing, or the broader consequences of trying to reopen the witcher schools. But I know that you’re walking into this with your eyes open, and that’s good enough for me.” He raised a hand in a cutting gesture. “Not gonna change.”

“Oh,” said Ciri faintly, toes flexing against the stirrups.

Geralt checked the sky. “We're about a half hour out. Might want to grab some rest, before things get hairy.”

Ciri cleared her throat. “Sounds like a plan to me.”

 

***

 

Ciri wasn't sure she still had the knack for sleeping in the saddle, but when she opened her eyes again, the two Roaches were coming to a halt. “Woah there, Roach,” Geralt said, gaze focused intensely on something just over the next undulating rise of overgrown pasture.

Ciri slid down from her saddle when Geralt dismounted. “This it?”

“Yeah.” Geralt dropped the reins and pressed on the loop of leather with a foot. “Hear them?”

“No.”

“They’re sluggish before sunrise.” Geralt said. He walked a few steps and crouched. “Try this.”

Ciri went to him, pressed her hand to the same patch of loamy soil he touched. Nothing. Concentrating fiercely, she dug her fingertips into the dirt, and waited. At first, she wasn’t sure if she was only willing herself to sense the vibrations -- was that really a faint, juddering click? But a few breaths later, the sensation came again. “Feels like… popping?”

Geralt nodded. “Root systems. About a hundred and twenty ells away. Four, but small.”

Ciri grinned in triumph, a jolt of adrenaline washing away the fuzziness of her short nap. “Too small for golden?”

“Oh no.” Geralt stood, eyes narrowed as he gave the hillside one last glance, then headed back for the Roaches’ saddlebags. “They’ll be venomous. Stick with a half dose, though.”

Ciri followed, taking care to keep her tread light. “I can handle a full vial of Golden Oriole.”

“First, your tolerance isn’t built up,” Geralt said, unbuckling one of the side pouches. The inside was sectioned into various pockets, each padded thickly with wool. He drew out a pair of slender vials, about the size of two fingers held together, each filled with a pale yellow liquid. “Second--” he held one out to her, forestalling her protest. “This is a formula I picked up in Toussaint. From the Manticore school, I think. More effective, but more toxic.”

Ciri took the vial. The bottom third was a paste of herbs and minerals, cooked down to a sticky brown slurry. The potion had been recently remade, she could tell, because not much of the bottom layer had been dissolved into successive changes of alcohest. The larger alcohest layer was pale gold, slightly greenish. It seemed like something a little different from the usual version. Interesting.

Taking care not to disturb the concentrated base layer -- a mouthful of that could kill a seasoned witcher -- Ciri sipped at the alcohol, trying not to taste it, though golden was hardly the worst of the witcher potions. Usually. Ugh, yes, this was definitely something different. She quickly sealed the remainder of the vial and handed it back, before the cramping could set in.

The warmth of the pungent liquid spread fast, accompanied by an unsettling rising sensation in her torso. Ciri realized almost too late that she was going to be sick. She clamped her jaw shut, focusing inward, trying to contain the violent gag reflex. The sickening sensation reached a peak, her mouth filling with saliva. Swallowing now would just ensure that the potion came right back up, yet the urge to do so, to try to dilute the toxin, was almost overwhelming.

Geralt downed the liquid portion of his vial, topped them both off with strong alcohest, and repacked the potions, watching Ciri closely all the while.

At last, with one more gut-wrenching twist, the cramping subsided. Ciri leaned over and spat the water from her mouth, gasping. Instead of pain, a golden phoenix burned in her belly now, warm, fierce, and comforting, sending rivulets of heat to her fingers and toes. It was almost euphoric, left her feeling just… clean.

“Better?”

“Yeah,” Ciri said, wiping the back of her hand across her mouth. “Let’s go.”

 

***


	3. Chapter 3

TLDR for chapters 2 and 3: Geralt and Ciri go hunting and talk about Ciri’s unfortunate accidental flaying of her male lovers, they have a small (totally minor) miscommunication, ~~Geralt ends up tied to a bed.  As one does.~~  (Next chapter, promise! This one got crazy long.)

 

*****

 

“Admit it,” Ciri said, flopping to the trampled and poison-spattered grass to pull off one boot. “They detected you first.”

“I am heavier,” said Geralt, wiping poison from his face with what might once have been a cotton scarf. “Nice work with the first one.”

“Vessemir’s tomes were definitely right about their blind spots,” Ciri said, smiling in the way of someone who had grieved a long time, yet now found that the memories carried only a distant and bittersweet kind of pain. She emptied acidic juices out of her boot, wincing. “Do they always explode?”

“Yes. Though I’ve never seen one try to swallow a bomb like that.”

Ciri laughed quietly, rubbing down her foot with the fabric Geralt tossed her way. “What about your shoulder?”

“Have to replace some of the chain,” Geralt said, fingering the broken mail links. “Didn’t get through the leather.”

“Good,” said Ciri, pausing to examine the abrasions that ran up both arms, where she’d tried to break her fall after being flung across pebbles and twigs. “Was there a swallow potion mixed with the golden, somehow?”

“No. This formulation just does that,” Geralt said. His armor and skin at last tolerably clean, he levered himself down to sit beside her. “Something about the venom exposure.”

“Brilliant,” Ciri said, watching with interest as the various bruises and scrapes she’d accumulated faded with visible speed.

“You made good turns,” Geralt noted, leaning back on his hands. Segments of the leg-thick trunks of archespores smoldered sullenly across the field. “Footwork could use some honing, though. The teleportation is very effective as a dodge, but--”

“I know,” Ciri said, wincing again. “Been too long.” Too long, too few opportunities to train against an opponent who could match her. And… she was starting to suspect that she just wasn’t as fast as she’d been at twenty. Smarter, yes, but just not quite so fast. It was a sobering realization.

“Hn,” said Geralt, thinking of the practice swords he’d seen in the palace’s courtyard, the smooth flagstones. Might have to go up to the rooftops to get enough variations in terrain.

“Geralt? Have you ever... stayed in one place? For longer than four months, I mean.”

“Sure. Kaer Morhen, some winters. Toussaint.”

Ciri smiled a little. “Heard you’re quite the decorated hero down there. Vineyard start producing yet?”

Geralt shook his head, then frowned and picked a piece of archespore out of the collar of his armored jacket. “Not enough to press. Maybe another year or two.”

“Yen stayed with you for a time, didn’t she?” About four months, to be exact.

Geralt cast her a glance. Ah, so that’s what this was about. “We’re fully capable of living together. In the same area, anyway. Without quarreling." He was almost certain that argument, at least, hadn't been his fault. Fairly certain.

Ciri heaved a much-put-upon sigh. Muttering something that sounded suspiciously like 'coping mechanisms,' she wedged her foot back into her boot and stood, surveying the smoking bits of archespores scattered across the field. "Want to find out where these came from?" she said, offering Geralt a hand.

Geralt took it, and she pretended to pull him to his feet with great effort, though in truth he stood easily enough under his own power. “Ugh, either that fancy new armor’s lined with lead, or Toussaint’s croissants are.”

“Nah, just getting ancient,” Geralt said, the joke between them as old as he himself was not -- and wouldn’t be for another quarter millennia or more, should he slip past monsters’ claws that long. But gamely enough, he headed for the first slain archespore.

Ciri hung back a little, keeping to the trampled grasses where she wouldn’t disturb any evidence, watching everything the witcher did with interest.

Geralt narrated his findings. “Looks like they’ve been growing vigorously for about two months. But they’re older than that. See the root nodules?” He brushed soil away from the bunched trunk. The vegetable flesh twitched under his hand, even beheaded as it was. Ciri dutifully nodded, taking mental note of the swellings.

“Hn. This is interesting.” Geralt pried up a curiously jagged-looking length of root. Parts of it were thick, with large bulb-like nodules; while others were thinner and paler, the nodes no larger than a fingertip. “Might have been transplanted. The runners only look like this if they’ve been chopped and mixed, then fused together by later growth.”

That was something of a relief; at least something terrible enough, and bloody enough, to generate archespores hadn’t necessarily happened in this peaceful field. “Transplanted on purpose?”

Geralt gave a slight motion she interpreted as a shrug. He pinched up a little of the soil from the base of the plant, and examined it closely, spreading its texture out across his gloved palm and inhaling. It evidently turned up no clues, because Geralt rose up from his easy crouch. He walked to another few spots, examining the soil at each, before finding a somewhat lighter-colored patch, mostly free of archespore juices or sprayed venom. “Recognize this?” he asked, handing her a portion of the soil.

Ciri spread it out, rolling the clumpy, fibrous stuff out as Geralt had done. “Peat moss?” she said at last, frowning.

“Yeah. Whole pasture’s layered with it.”

“You think the runners might have come in with the peat?”

“Could be.” Geralt’s golden gaze traced a patch of grass that appeared indistinguishable from the others. “Peat cutters could have moved into new area of bog. Might have hauled it up here by cart. Mmn, looks like something with steel-rimmed wheels.”

“So, no foul play?” Ciri said. Anyone planting the archespores deliberately surely wouldn't have bothered to fertilize the entire field. She whistled the horses to them, and took their halters as she followed Geralt’s slow, winding course.

“Mn,” Geralt said neutrally, pausing to examine other clumps of spilled peat, now thoroughly weathered and sunken into the thick pasture grasses. At a wetter portion of the field, he stopped to part the herbage, and pointed out the wagon tracks he’d spotted -- barely even creases in the soil now, after two months of rain and rampant summer growth. “I’d rather it have been deliberate,” Geralt said finally, standing to survey the field.

Ciri frowned… then sucked in a breath. “The peat cutters.”

“Right.” If they were selling a contaminated product, other fields might soon be affected. And the peat cuttters themselves might be in danger, if they’d begun to harvest at the edges of an archespore patch.

Ciri thought furiously. “I can have the road patrols inspect peat shipments. Can you figure out where this batch came from?”

Geralt hesitated, then shook his head. “Probably not,” he said, though he followed the wagon tracks out to the road just to be sure. The wheel marks ended at the main roadway, merging into the traces left by a thousand other similar carts. Early-rising farmers and tradesmen, walking or riding, regarded him with suspicion. Ciri hung back at a distance with the horses, wisely avoiding prying eyes.

Geralt’s senses were good, and the peat had a fairly strong musty, boggy smell to it, but even he couldn’t track by scent a wagon that had passed by two months earlier. Besides which, he could hear that Ciri’s stomach had started to growl. And no wonder, after a night in the saddle, plus the fight.

Geralt turned away, walking back up the slope to her. “Might ride by the various peat cutting camps, see if any workers go missing.”

Ciri nodded, slowly. There had to be another way to find out, other than waiting for men to turn up dead. “Ask the landowner, when you collect? He might know where they purchased from.”

Geralt huffed a short graveley laugh, taking up Roach’s halter. “That’d be a rare estate holder. But I’ll ask around.” They’d head back to the pathway they’d ridden in by -- it was certain to be quieter, easier for Ciri to pull her hood down and catch some sleep in the saddle. “Sun’ll be up in a few minutes. Think we have all the answers we’re going to get for now. Should probably start back,” Geralt said. He couldn’t miss the way Ciri seemed to tighten, the stiffness in her shoulders returning.

“Uh huh,” said Ciri.

Geralt had heard that tone before. He wasn’t about to let it slide this time. “Ciri. This might be a good time to talk about what happened, what’s bothering you.”

Ciri turned away from him. “It’s not -- that’s hardly…. Yen’s probably told you everything already.” The black Nilfgaardian mare whuffed at her hair. Ciri pulled herself up tiredly to swing a leg over Roach’s back.

Geralt exhaled slowly. “She said a little.” He mounted as well, turning the matter over, so far as he understood it. There really was no way to go about this delicately. “Would rather hear it from you. What did happen?”

Ciri toyed with Roach’s reigns. She resettled herself, face turned away. “Bran’arle... was a Siech from Hafland, near Zerrikania. A baron, basically. Had been with the court for six months or so, then. We were to be... attached.”

“Hn.” Geralt paused. What did he know about royal power structures? But he recalled all too well queen Calanthe’s tight expression, the constant, gnawing anxiety he could smell under her perfume. She’d been born to rule, made for it, yet Roegner had become king of Cintra upon his marriage to Calanthe. He ruled Cintra, yes, but he had never been its lion. What might Cintra have come to, had Ciri’s grandmother been the true head of state? “I don’t much like the idea of someone else sharing the throne. Or seeing you relegated to… to a trophy.”

Ciri gave him a wan smile, both horses walking side by side. “Me neither. Which is why it wasn’t to be a wedding. I had scholars spend months in the annals and dusty archives -- they determined that kings have had consorts in Nilfgaard for, well, as long as the histories go back. At times, it wasn’t unusual for these consorts to take an administrative role, and their offspring be acknowledged as heirs -- so there’s precedent. And the gods know I could use another able administrator or two. So I resurrected the ceremony.”

“Clever.”

“That’s what Yen said. Made the Lodge unhappy too. I think they wanted someone who both had real power and was more easily manipulated, which - you know, that's the exact same expression Yen gave me as well.” Ciri said, shaking her head, then sighed and pressed a fist into her lower back. “It would have solved other problems, too. You’ve heard of the lineal purists?”

“No.”

“Probably seen their pamphlets, though. About needing a lineage, descendents to carry on the line, in order to be fit to rule. Pure Nilfgaardian, preferably, though I’m not sure how they came up with that particular rubbish. They’re minor players, for now, and I’ve got propaganda masters of my own. But there are people willing to listen to them.”

Geralt scowled. Ciri had spent most of her young adulthood being hunted -- imprisoned, blackmailed, and so much more -- all for the children she might one day bear. The thought of her going through that again… he sat up straighter, chainmail panels clicking. “Are you being pressured? We can pick up supplies and head southeast,” he said. “The blue mountains are three weeks’ ride. We’ll make good time.”

“Geralt.” Ciri smiled fondly. “They’re not actually wrong, in principle. I’m thirty now, not your ward, and not a helpless refugee. I make my own choices -- about this and everything else.” She hesitated. “I’m trying to build a world I can be proud of, Geralt -- one that’s diverse and strong, safe and prosperous, for every person of every faith, species, and walk of life -- so yes, I’d like descendents to share that with. I wanted Bran’arle to give me one. And I have to admit, the idea of being able to send a child to Kaer Morhen for a few winters of training… well, it’s a pretty thought.”

Geralt was silent for a time. “Wanted?” he asked, finally.

Ciri spurred Roach to an unsteady trot. “I murdered him,” she said at last. “So what I wanted doesn’t really matter now, does it?”

Geralt matched her pace, and waited.

“He had a dagger,” Ciri finally said. “Small, just an eating knife, really. Brought it into the -- and I saw it. I don't know what happened after that.” She exhaled hard. “Maybe he forgot to remove it from his belt. Maybe he was planning -- something else. There wasn't enough left afterwards for the sorceresses to question, even if I had wanted them to use necromancy.”

“Still have the dagger?”

“Parts of it, yes. Tested for poison, if that's what you mean. There was none.”

“Wouldn’t necessarily need any. But I’d like to examine--”

“Geralt.” Ciri’s mouth tightened. For the first time, she understood what a person who hired a man like Geralt must feel, all their sins and skeletons unearthed by each implacable question. “This isn’t a witcher contract. You cannot follow the clues to expose the monster. After all, I already know--”

“No.” Geralt shook his head, voice flat and certain. “This isn’t a contract. And you’re no monster.”

“Aren’t I?” Ciri looked at him. “Cedric of Kaedwen was three weeks ago. I liked him, Geralt. He had a good head for figuring out what supplies a province would need for the winter. Smart, bookish. And I-- one moment, we were, and the next --” she swallowed, gave a broken sound that might have been meant to be a laugh. “We can handle this diplomatic incident. But I can’t keep murdering the princes of my vassal states, now can I?”

“Did he have any weapons?” Some curses could--

“Stop trying to make excuses for me!” Ciri pinched the bridge of her nose. “I know what happened. It’s just me, my powers, my apprehensions about -- with men, after everything that… that I went through. But I will solve this, Geralt. I won’t run from anything, not anymore. Certainly not my own limitations.”

“I know that’s what the sorceresses have told you, but--” Geralt shook his head. She’d try to solve it with Phillipa’s… assistance, she meant. And that wasn’t -- it wasn’t something he wanted for her. Particularly given that Phillipa was his primary suspect, so far as curses went. Ciri might have forgiven the Lodge’s efforts to manipulate her dynasty, but Geralt never would. This would be exactly like the Lodge’s doing: a subtle spell, a proffered false solution. Still, he would not cast aspersions without evidence. “Ciri, before you try anything else -- I’d like to help. Attempt, at least.”

Ciri seemed taken aback. “I --. There’s no one I trust more. But.” They were passing across the face of a hillside, wildflowers bobbing in the early morning light. “Now?”

“No. I need to ask a few questions, gather some supplies,” Geralt said, thinking. The protective lines of Yrden, properly cast, could flare up when curses were activated nearby. Perhaps he could determine its source with that, or else one of the hallucinogenic decoctions --

“Didn’t realize it was so complicated,” Ciri said quietly. “I’m… Geralt, I’m grateful, but I’m concerned for you. If this ends badly, I couldn’t-- couldn’t live with--” She swallowed.

“It won’t,” said Geralt. He’d have to see how much beggartick he had. The powder sometimes reacted to certain classes of curses. “I am a professional, after all.”

It was difficult to read Ciri’s body language, or to decipher the look she gave him -- intrigued perhaps, astonished, or maybe a little bit consternated. He could, however, hear that she was still hungry. Setting the other matter aside in favor of the one he _did_ understand, Geralt reached back to unbuckle his travel pack. “Sticky bun, while we ride?” he asked.

“Er. Yes?” Ciri said. She edged Roach closer alongside the other Roach.

“I’ve been practicing a trick with Igni, to warm food. Ah, here.”

“That’s... useful, actually,” Ciri said, and leaned out to take the paper-wrapped packet from him. The corners of her mouth twitched. “Only burns the edges a little. Nice.”

They shared the slightly-scorched cinnamon rolls, a packet of oil-roasted nuts, and a bottle of good white wine, passing the food back and forth between the horses. And traveling side by side through fields of sweetgrass and wheat, they watched the sun rise.

 

*****

 

Vizima was in a turmoil when they returned.

The gates were manned by treble the guards -- every outgoing wagon and rider was being thoroughly searched, and a long line of merchants trying to leave the city clogged the roadways. Not many people were attempting to enter; but that only made the pair of hooded and well-armed riders stand out more.

“You there!” called a guardsman, reaching for Roach’s halter when Ciri tried to ride past. “Halt! No one enters without--”

Ciri held up a hand before Geralt could ride forward -- and then pushed back her hood. The guard gaped. “Who is your watch sargent?” Ciri’s tone was hard, commanding and well-practiced. “Var Havart? Get him here immediately.”

“Empress!” The guard trembled, and then ran. All activity at the gate was coming to a grinding halt, men and women turning to stare.

“The Empress-- heard she were dead-- them swords-- said she was missing-- that really her?-- a witcher--”

Ciri looked over the assemblage, sighed quietly, and then straightened her back deliberately. “You, and you three, form up for an escort to the palace. Is there a house to house search?”

“I--I think so, your ladyship, I don’t--”

It was only then that Geralt fully realized what had happened. What he’d done, rather. Apparently, he could now add ‘kidnapping the single most powerful person on the continent’ to his laundry list of notorieties. Wonderful.

A red-faced guard, bearing more ornate armor than usual, pushed his way past the gawkers. “Out of the way, ye bloody prickless sons of wh-- oh gods.”

“Harvart.” Ciri looked imperiously to the sargent. Her tone reminded Geralt of… Yennefer, actually. “I am taking these men. You have a xenovox at this station? Relay a call to the other gates over the emergency channel; I want the alert ended and the searches terminated. Get these people through. You there, men -- fall in.”

Stung by the rapid fire orders, the men lined themselves up alongside either side of Ciri’s mount, drawing Roach’s placid attention, and the witcher’s considerably sharper regard. Ciri glanced back. “Geralt?”

The witcher hesitated, just for a bare moment, as a wolf might balk from the human scent of homes and hearths. The road behind him was wide open and waiting.

Then he spurred Roach forward.

 

*****

 

If the city had been chaotic, the palace was like a kicked hornet’s nest. Groups of men were arming themselves and their horses, officers shouted orders, weapons clanking. They seemed to hail from every corner of the empire -- Toussaintois knights with their garish bright armor, Zerrikanian sand runners mounted on strange gracile horses, Nilfgaardinans bearing ostentatious standards that even Geralt had never seen, even a rowdy division of Skelligers who looked to be mere moments from beating the salt out of a terrified Nilfgaardian diplomat. Servants of every sort scurried across the courtyard carrying missives or supplies, dodging the heavy hooves of big war horses, obeying orders shouted in half a dozen languages. Young mages and sorceresses argued in tight clusters, gesturing wildly at parchments, bowls of water, and other varied and sundry tools of their art. The main gates were open, with so many search parties departing and informants arriving that the gate guards stood no chance of halting each one.

As their little unit rode into the main courtyard, silence began to spread, like oil poured across troubled waters. Men and women turned, astonishment writ on their features. Some of them dropped to kneel, or attempted to bow in the Nilfgaardian manner, as often as not striking their neighbors in the process, so tightly packed was the throng.

“Var Attre!” In the spreading quiet, the cry rang out probably louder than the messenger intended. Tripping over his robes and flapping sandals, a skinny young mage -- one of the apprentices Ciri had mentioned, no doubt -- hurtled down the stairs that lead to a corner tower. Odd-looking steel posts with many fine branches had been bolted to the tower’s rooftop. The young mage clutched a fluttering scrap of paper as he pelted across the courtyard, heading for a group of Nilfgaardian noblemen. “Var Attre, the portage gate-- they report that she’s been sighted entering the--”

“Ahem.” Var Attre, once ambassador to Redania and now the governor of Vizima, stepped forward and caught the young mage’s shoulder to turn him around.

“Oh,” said the apprentice, faintly.

Ciri dismounted, casting a keen eye over the crowd. “Thank you all for mobilizing so quickly,” Ciri said, voice pitched to carry across the courtyard. “However, reports of my disappearance are greatly exaggerated, as you can see. Sari, please make certain that our guests are supplied and rested before returning to their dominions. Torres, see that the sorceresses reverse and ready the portals. Chamberlain Mereid, guest quarters for Geralt. Var Attre, accompany me to the solarium.”

With quick efficiency, Ciri pulled off her baldric and cape -- and for the first time, Geralt saw her hesitate. He leaned down and offered a hand, wordless.

Ciri straightened her shoulders, nodded slightly, and handed him the twin swords. Then she was swallowed into the crowd, soldiers stumbling in their heavy armor as they tried to make way for her, the guardsmen hurrying to keep up.

Geralt could catch a few of Ciri’s commands as she set to imposing order on the motley forces. “Have the petitions delayed another hour. And get me the portal status reports. As for the man who stood guard on the stairs. Stephen, was it? I want him released. He hasn’t been hung?”

“Not yet, Empress, but--”

“Released, I said. Immediately. Not to be broken down in rank, either. Have the house-to-house searches been called off yet?”

“My liege, I--”

“Ahem. The gentleman will dismount, please. A page will see to the horses.”

Geralt blinked, refocusing his senses, and looked down to where Chamberlain Mereid seemed to have apparated out of thin air. His hair had perhaps whitened a little since Geralt’s last encounter with him; otherwise, he’d changed not at all. The witcher heaved a sigh and swung himself down. “Fine,” he said.

Mereid’s lip lifted in a faint moue of distaste at the sight -- and, no doubt, the smell -- of poison-spattered armor and leathers made stiff from salt and sweat. “A bath shall be drawn for the gentleman. This way, please.”

 

*****

 

The bath actually took some time to arrange, in large part because Geralt made good his escape via the balcony as soon as Mereid’s back was turned, and it was near evening before the witcher finally eased himself down into the heated water.

Rather than a construction of wooden staves, the tub in these quarters was an expansive marble basin, so large that three people might comfortably share it. A brass lion’s head, set into the wall, spat a steady stream of steaming water. The overflow left the basin via several finger-sized holes cut into the rim of the stone bowl. The water wasn’t brought in by magic, however, for Geralt could hear it flowing through… pipes in the walls? It was all exceedingly strange, albeit undeniably luxurious.

Geralt was just investigating an array of cut crystal vials, casks, and bottles arrayed along one edge of the basin when, in the main room, the door to the hallway unlatched itself and swung open. Geralt sighed, and arranged himself a bit more comfortably. “Care to join me?” he called out.

“I cannot believe --” the heels of tall riding boots clacked on the slate tiles. “I cannot believe you’d show up unannounced, only to kidnap the ruler of all of Nilfgaard. No, perhaps I can believe it. I should have expected this.”

“Are you finished?” Geralt growled, lazily slitting open one eye, and then both, with interest. Yennefer wore white, her usual color palette reversed. Soft black lace framed a neckline broad enough to expose delicate collar bones. Her already-slender waist was made moreso by a white damask corset, laced with black. Her high-slit gown gleamed pale in the lamplight, the deep velvet black of the reverse side of the fabric flashing with each step.

“No, Geralt, I am not. Perhaps the next time I spend a month tracking you down and considerable energy to teleport out to you, I should make myself more clear: don’t start an international manhunt, don’t bloody well poison the Empress. Need I instruct you not to pluck down the moon as well?”

“We were careful,” Geralt protested. “Ciri’s resistance to witcher potions is still good. I had a vial of White Honey ready. And I was watching her the entire time. There were no lasting effects.”

“Lasting--” Yen looked very much as if she wanted to bury her face in her hands. “You will forgive me, Geralt, if I question your judgment in this matter, given that you regularly poison yourself to the point that--”

“Yen."

_"What?"_

"It’s good to see you.”

Yennefer folded her arms and glared. “Please tell me you’re here to do something useful.”

“Mn. I’ve searched the palace, and made certain inquiries. I wasn’t aware that you had apprentices.”

Yennefer’s expression had taken on a certain look that Geralt recognized, the one that said that she was reading his mind but couldn’t make heads nor tails of what she saw. “I could hardly turn Ciri down. I trust you haven’t pestered any of them unduly.”

Geralt snorted. “If by ‘pestered’, you mean ‘did I prevent one of them falling out of the library window, and then spend an hour being lectured on various sizes of infinite number sets without being able to slip in a word edgewise,’ then yes, I did.”

Yennefer arched a brow. “Some mathematical infinities are larger than others, _yes,_ ” she said. “That was likely Marija, one of the polymaths. What exactly were you looking for?”

Polymaths now, was it? Geralt shook his head in genuine amazement. “Ida Emean aep Sivney and Aurora Hensen have turned the catacombs into some kind of… of laboratory.” Geralt never would have imagined that the two would work together on anything, frankly, let alone be willing to play pedagogues to three dozen masked adepts hunched over vials and alembics, both mages and sorceresses, none older than twenty. “They directed me to Cedric’s and Bran’arle’s remaining belongings.” And, in Prince Cedric’s case, his actual remains, stored in a cask enchanted to remain cold until shipment back to Kaedwen, the entire container no larger than a folded blanket.

“Geralt.” Yennefer winced. It was never easy reading past a memory of blood and bone fragments. “I have no idea what you’re going on about. Yes, yes, the two dead men. What of them?”

Geralt heaved a sigh and stood up in the water, wading over to a shallow bowl mounted to the wall, cognizant of Yennefer’s eyes on him. The bar within smelled like milk and apples rather than lye, but it was still recognizably soap. Good enough, he figured. “Cedric’s doublets were stiffened with enough wire to form a very serviceable garrote.”

Yennefer fixed him with a skeptical gaze. “Most doublets are. You think Cedric, a man who all but worshiped at Ciri’s feet, planned on peeling apart the seams of his clothing and plaiting together an impromptu weapon, all without Ciri noticing?”

“That, I don’t yet know.” Geralt waded back to the sunken steps and seated himself. He dunked his head, and started soaping his hair. “Nor have I been able to locate the curse’s anchor.”

Yennefer blinked. “What?”

“The curse. The spell that’s causing this.”

“Geralt--” Yen heaved a sigh, sounding much put upon. “No, don’t use that on your hair; it will only worsen those split ends. Wait a moment.” She sorted through the bottles on the side of the tub, and came around behind Geralt with one of them. “It’s not a curse.”

“Oh? You’ve become an expert over the past three years?” But despite the bite of his tone, he spread his arms out along the edge of the tub, his golden eyes slipping closed as Yennefer anointed her hands with a thick liquid that smelled like cloves and cinnamon. She combed her fingers through his hair, nails scritching very pleasantly as she worked up a lather.

“Never my favorite school of study, as you well know. But we did consider the possibility. None of the sorceresses can sense or scry the powerlines indicative of such a spell. And… Geralt. This isn’t the first time this has happened.”

“Oh?” Geralt rolled his head to the side, inviting more of that luxurious touch.

Yennefer let a hand drift down to the back of his neck, stroking over heavily corded musculature. She sighed. “How much did Ciri tell you of her time with the bandit band, the Rats? Or the guild operative, Hotsporn, from whom she took Kelpie?”

“Took? Hardly. A dead man’s horse is fair game.” Geralt’s brows drew together, though not from discomfort. In truth, Yennefer gave the best massages of any being who’d ever laid hands on him, even accounting for the possibility that there may have been more than a little magic in her touch.

“He wasn’t dead to begin with. While he and Ciri were hiding from the bandits, he made certain untoward gestures, and attempted to -- no, don’t growl at me. And yes, I know he’d been wounded. It shouldn’t have been enough to kill him.” Yennefer finished sudsing his hair and turned to his shoulders.

The corner of Geralt’s mouth twitched. “You can scry into the past, now?”

Yennefer dug her knuckles into knot of muscle a bit harder than was strictly necessary. “Better. I accompanied a team to Medima and dug the bastard up. No, Ciri doesn’t know, and I would appreciate your silence on the matter. The crossbow pellet was here--” Yen ran her nail down Geralt’s left shoulder blade, “--near the eighth thoracic vertebrae, between the rib heads. Barbed and capped, two inches long. No, no other wounds.”

“Hn.” Geralt stretched to bare more of the spot to her fingers. That was well below the cardiac nerve, even if the spinal column had been breached. And pellets didn’t have the velocity to punch through a thick layer of muscle and reach the heart itself. Yen was right. It hadn’t been a crossbow that had killed the whoreson. 

And, now that he thought about it... there had been the death of the king of the Aen Elle, when the elves had captured Ciri in order to.... “So. Who would have had cause to lay a curse on her, when she was just fourteen?”

“It isn’t a curse.” Yennefer dug her fingers into a particularly stubborn knot of muscle. “Think about it rationally for one damned minute, if you can. If you’re right, and the victims did intend to harm Ciri, do you know of any curses that act to protect the afflicted? Rinse off; that’s soaked in long enough.”

Grumbling to himself, Geralt obediently ducked down under the water, and came up dripping. “I know of at least eight classes of curse resistant to detection by sorcerers,” Geralt said stubbornly.

“How many curses distinguish between genders?” Yennefer hooked a lacquer-handled hairbrush from where it hung. “Surely you noticed that all the victims were men, sparing her female lovers.”

Geralt snarled a little as Yen worked the brush through a particularly tangled lock of his hair. “It’s possible for a curse to gender distinguish,” he insisted, which was technically true. Albeit they didn’t tend to do so in quite this… spectacular a fashion.

Yennefer sighed. “It isn’t a curse, Geralt,” she said softly.

“It could be,” he maintained, after a moment. Because if it wasn’t, if this was simply Ciri’s own powers reacting to all the layered terror, all the abuse that he should have been there to prevent…. Well. There had to be some malevolent magic he could find, could fight and dispel. To fix it. To help. That was all there was to it.

Yen finished with the brush and laid it aside. She smoothed her hands across his shoulders for a moment, fingertips lingering on the scars, digging into the hollows under his collar bones and working away the bunched soreness there. “You can. And you will,” Yennefer said at last, quietly, in answer to the unspoken. “Enough for tonight; let’s continue this elsewhere. I love you, but I will not drown myself for you.”

More than enough reason to bestir himself from the steaming pool. “Mn. Love you too,” Geralt said. He pushed himself up, water sheeting from his skin. And, grabbing a heated towel, he let her lead him out into the bedroom.

 

*****


End file.
